The black clouds closed like a tomb, for the sun was
dead.
Then the wind smote full as the breath of God,
And the wave called to its brothers,
"This is the crest of life!"
VI
This is the song of the wave, that rises to fall,
Rises a sheer green wall like a barrier of glass
That has caught the soul of the moonlight.
Caught and prisoned the moon-beams;
Its edge is frittered to foam.
This is the wave!
VII
This is the song of the wave, of the wave that falls-
Wild as a burst of day-gold blown through the
colours of morning
It shivers to infinite atoms up the rumbling steep
of sand.
This is the wave.
VIII
This is the song of the wave that died in the fullness
of life.
The prodigal this, that lavished its largess of
strength
In the lust of attainment.
Aiming at things for Heaven too high,
Sure in the pride of life, in the richness of strength.
So tried it the impossible height, till the end was
found:
Where ends the soul that yearns for the fillet of
morning stars,
The soul in the toils of the journeying worlds,
Whose eye is filled with the Image of God,
And the end is Death!
GEORGE CABOT LODGE
FRIMAIRE
DEAREST, we are like two flowers
Blooming in the garden,
A purple aster flower and a red one
Standing alone in a withered desolation.
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